Gifts of the Queen

by Mary Lide

  'And if there be need, or word to send,' I cried in one last fit of anxiety, 'trust anyone who bears this ring, no one else. It carries message from me alone.' They repeated word for word among themselves, these village women I had come to love, no thought of treachery, no suspicion of falsehood in hearts so clear. Who defends such innocents against the burden of their innocence? They nodded at a thought their minds could not conceive. Robert bounced in their arms as the riders went by. I loosened my grip on him, walked slowly back to where my ladies, mounted, were waiting me. Another year, Raoul had promised Robert a horse; he should ride and walk at the same time. And another year, another time, it would be I who stood here and watched him go, and should never know when he would return . . .

  At the top of the cliff path, Raoul leaned forward in his saddle impatiently. I had forgotten how he never liked to stand, but when mounted was prepared to ride out upon the instant. Well, today he must wait. He had already bidden his son goodbye, so should I. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him come up, his black horse skittish, as if scenting battle on the wind; it shied, pawed, tossed its head. My ladies, so-called mine, these Norman chaperons, shrank back, unable to hold their own horses still until the squires ran up to help. I saw Raoul's scowl.

  'We await your pleasure,' he said, wheeling past, 'your ladies attend you this half hour. We linger but to give the signal at your need.' I sensed the satire beneath the words. They put me on my mettle as he meant.

  'Give it,' I said. I scrambled up in a flurry of skirts, a sidesaddle which I seldom use hindering me; half in the saddle, I kicked my horse forward even as he raised his hand. He cantered on, no more courtesy then from him. But I rode a step behind, grim mouthed, hair flaring wild. My ladies, in the rear, bumped along helplessly. Let them tumble off, I thought, let them see how it is to be unhorsed; that is the sport they anticipate. But he'll not outpace me. Down we went in uneven line, Raoul, his guard, myself, fast; Walter and Matt hotfooted after us; the ladies and their escort complaining loudly in our dust. Let them ride as best they can, I thought again, they came here of their own free will to serve me, let them work for it. But when at last we did slow down, they were left too far away to be of service even if they would.

  'God's wounds,' I thought I heard Lord Raoul say, as if to air, 'she'd lead a charge if she had the mind.'

  I shook the rain from my cloak and pinned back my braids.

  'Women have done as much,' I retorted to his back, 'a Celtic army once was so led. And the men those women defeated were Norman men.'

  His guard turned aside to hide their grins and we rode on. But when we came to the borders of de Boissert land, in good time although not so gently as we might, and stopped to let the stragglers catch up, 'We joust well, lady wife,' he said, and this time there was no trace of smile, "but here we tread carefully, you and I. Make no move out of line, for all our sakes. It is not against Sieux alone they sharpen their spears. Be warned.'

  God pardon me, I closed my ears. I was not in a mood to listen to anyone. His hand shot out, grasped the bridle rein. 'I give you one last chance,' he ground out, 'heed it. Or, by the Rood, back you go, with your gaggle of womenfolk. Help you can, but as hindrance I'll not have you round my neck.'

  'You need no help from me,' I said, as mutinous as a stubborn child. Nor should he think to send me off as he might order a page do this, do that; I had given fair warning, too. He still held on motionless, his eyes their darkest gray, until I let my own gaze fall. Well, it was a cold response, not kindly given, no word of encouragement, God forgive me, no hope of success. A cold reply and as coldly taken. We rode forward, more sedately now, and came within the boundaries of the tourney field; side by side we rode, but might have been a mile apart.

  Much has been written of the tourney at Boissert Field and all it meant. For me, who had not seen such things before, it overwhelmed. Ralph de Boissert had certainly had much practice in such affairs. Pavilions had been strung up for our use at the edge of a vast tract of land that stretched, as he had described, toward the hills. The hills themselves might have been scooped out to create such a gigantic hollow place, sloping slightly at either end, flat and level in the center part. At one side, wooden stands had been set up with a barricade to form two lanes, down which the jousters would ride. It was deserted now; everyone gathered to watch more humble sport, tilting at the quintain for the squires and younger lads. The rain had already blown away, the sun was coming out behind massed clouds. Had it been another day, another time, I should have been off my horse, or tumbled off myself more like, so eager to take in all the sights and sounds. By now, my ladies had revived, so many horses, so many knights, even those overweight and bleary-eyed more noble on horseback, so many ladies fine bedecked, to keep them amused.

  Ralph de Boissert and his retinue advanced to welcome us; on foot they came, he in new byrnie of mail that shone and rippled as he moved, not too old then to take part in the tourney himself, bareheaded as mark of respect, I suppose. He had not been so polite at Sieux, and for a moment I feared he might remember me, although not much chance, I today in my green wedding gown, with my hair once more confined and smooth. Beside him came Jean de Vergay, more like a rabbit with twitching nose. He carried the white baton of his rank, a spectator he, no combatant. After him trailed his family. Lady de Vergay, portly fat as he was thin, his sons, two of them, both plump, the oldest Raoul's age, overstuffed in pale mauve. The de Vergay men muttered platitudes and bowed and scraped their heels like restive steeds. I did not think they had the breath to plan more than a dinner to feed themselves, and seeing them together, again I could not believe their father capable of mounting a surprise attack. Lord Raoul returned their greeting briefly, ignored their effusiveness, and, dismounting, came to lift me down, a sign of courtesy in him. But his hand about my waist was hard; I took it rather as a warning. My ladies clambered off with sighs of relief.

  We strolled across the grass, sodden and muddy underfoot, to where great fire pits smoked, sending wafts of wood and roasting meat. Pages dressed in the de Boissert colors of black and white scurried with platters laden with food. There were roasts of every kind, from oxen whole to small birds, grilled and stuffed fowl, and sweetmeats for more delicate tastes, spun sugar swans, and honey cakes, and wine in flagons—such a display would have beggared us. Yet we did not look so impoverished; our horses were sleek and the red and gold pennons fluttered behind us. For once, Raoul looked his part, a noble lord, his mail coat slung over his squire's horse and his hair bound back under a golden band. Despite myself, I felt a glow of pride.

  A shout went up to make us all spin around. The younger boys as I have explained were already tilting at the quintain, with a crowd of underlings to cheer them on. One of our squires had caught up a lance and ridden full gallop at the ring of steel that hung from its thick chain. He rode too fast, even I knew that, lance askew, and as we watched, the bag of sand that hung on the other end of the chain swung round and hit him squarely on the back, sending him headlong over his horse's neck. I knew his style. He was my impetuous Matt, more like to ride an enemy down than fight with him; but as he fell, with some strange twist, he pulled himself right way again. He grabbed the reins, sawed the horse round, feeling his way back over the high saddle, feeling too for the stirrup irons, weaving from side to side as if about to be tossed a second time. The horse was snorting with alarm. Matt breathless with effort and chagrin. Back he rode to snatch a new lance, rode as fast and fiercely as before. This pass, with more luck than skill, he hit fairly, rode on, reins flapping, wiping blood from his split lip. The peasants cheered; I cheered myself until I saw Raoul give his half salute that made Matt grin. He disappeared, still wildly lurching, and I caught Raoul's smile, the look he exchanged with his other men. That one will do, it said; aye, do for blood and war and death. I folded my arms firmly under each other, would not smile myself, and stalked on.

  'Save you. Countess of Sieux,' Lady de Vergay came panting after me. She had her daught
er's voice, the same sharp tongue which flicked in and out as she licked her lips. 'You and your ladies lie within.' She pointed to where a large tent, striped red and yellow, stood to one side. 'Your serving maids,' she emphasized the word, 'must direct your men to unpack your things. We have fair bedding, from our own geese plucked, and white, fresh laundered linen for your use.' She gave a sniff as much as to say. You may need them. We know you are accustomed to sleeping on the ground. Perhaps she thought to hear me confess, as her daughter had, that we owned no bedding of our own. At my silence, she went on. 'Count Raoul and his men sleep there, with the other contestant lords.' She pointed again, out came her tongue. 'My daughter, Alyse, whom you know, bid me tell you our maids are at your service if you so require. They are well-trained, too, no common sluts.' Carefully were her words chosen, as if she had learned them by rote, as if her husband or her over-lord had rehearsed her in what to say, but beneath them resentment lurked.

  There was another commotion at our backs. I should have explained that all this while, other men had come riding in, each one of import making a circuit of where we stood, to see and be seen; it was still early in the day, no haste, plenty of opportunity to let themselves and their horsemanship be admired. Now a group of ladies came riding up. I knew the one at their head, although I had never seen her except in dreams. She sat sideways and bent her neck, letting a page in black and white lead her along. Not old, not young, her fair hair was bound into a kind of snood to free her profile of wisps and curls so that, as she passed, one could see the lofty tilt of her chin. She too was sumptuously dressed, in samite silk, pale cream and gold to bring out the color of her hair, her pale skin, and when her men lifted her down, she glided like a swan, her fur-trimmed gown barely touching the ground, her little feet in their violet silk swishing in and out. I heard Walter suck in his breath and could have hit him for a lout.

  'Save you, Lord Raoul,' she said, this paragon, this lily flower—whatever poet praises a woman whose hair is black, or red, whose eyes are brown and not sky blue, whose feet are not small and who always runs? 'It is long since last we met,' and she smiled, showing her small white teeth. Beside him, she was not tall, although taller I think than I, and her golden hair complemented his. 'Too long,' she said, and smiled up at him, 'we should not have let so many years go by.'

  'So much for time,' he said, and he too smiled, not his boyish grin but thoughtful, remembering perhaps days long past, 'it outdistances us all in the end.'

  She tapped him on his shoulder with her painted nails. 'Then we should make excuse to catch up with it,' she said. 'I would have news of you.'

  Well, I make no excuse for the way I felt. I had never liked her since I had heard of her, and although red hair may not grace a poet's verse, they say it is a sign of temper and of jealousy.

  'My lady and the Count match together,' broke in another remembered voice whose false sweetness I recalled, malicious-sweet with waspish bite. 'When betrothed, all the world thought them well paired.' Mistress Alyse had come to her mother's side, dressed in the pale blue she favored, her eyes like her mother's, flat and cold. She held a little lapdog in her arms that panted too, showing its pink pointed tongue. She smoothed its silken fur with bejewelled hands, the more it yapped and snarled. No greeting she gave to me, although her mother prodded her, asked only if I should attend the feast. 'Then shall you see my Lady Isobelle dance,' she emphasized those words, and nodded to where the lady stood, many lords of note crowding round, but she kept Raoul beside her, her little hand upon his arm. 'No more graceful dancer than she,' she went on, 'the lightest in all of Normandy. She and Count Raoul danced at their betrothal feast without stint, all night long. And in the morning, his men claimed he said he had slept in Paradise.'

  And she smiled to herself to see the effect her words had on me. Now, I had not imagined Raoul had led a monkish life, and he himself had admitted once that in his youth when he first had known Isobelle she had attracted him. In his youth. Later, he had vowed he cared not for her, she was too much the older, had not been chaste. I said, 'That betrothal was long ago, too many years perhaps for your lady to wish to dance. Dancing is for younger feet.'

  It was mistake to cross her; venomous, she struck back fast. 'Since the tourney is in her honor,' Mistress Alyse said, 'and he is ranking guest, I think they'll dance. Unless he is too lame or halt. Or unless the damp air has made him stiff.' And she smiled to think her barbs had caught.

  Well, loyalty is to be admired, I suppose, among women-folk as it is among men; it had not occurred to me that one of the reasons for her dislike was that she saw me as an interloper, usurper to the place her lady should have held. Despite the warnings, it had not dawned on me before that not only had she, Alyse de Vergay, been cheated out of her due as part of an earl's entourage, she felt her lady had been cheated too, and I the cause. Not to have understood until now the bond between these two women, so unalike, made me stupid, tongue-tied. And now she made me feel once more, as she meant, the contrast between what Lord Raoul had lost, what now had in its place.

  'These will be French dances,' she was saying, 'hard to perform, intricate. I do not think anyone else could learn them. Dainty steps and delicate, not clodhopping through the mud in men's boots.' And she stared openly at the hem of my gown where dirt had splattered from our ride.

  'But Lady Ann is used to mud and dirt,' her mother cried cheerfully, as if it were a game, 'she is no fine lady to let a little rain worry her. You, my love, must wrap your mistress against the cold . . .'

  Well, I give you but a glimpse of how they chattered on. I did not let them see again the misery they caused. But it is true, and now I will confess it, my other anxieties paled in comparison. I do not mean they vanished quite; but considered side by side, the one came always uppermost into my mind. Raoul had good cause to claim that women put domestic issues first. And so now, as if I did not already have enough difficulties to choke me with, that Raoul and I should be so at odds, I had the worry of this paragon flattering and pleasing him the more I nagged.

  The women's tent was large. When we finally went there, many ladies moved in and out; my own women, close to the bed where I lay, pleaded weariness, whispering to each other this name or that, those ladies of whom Walter had such hope. The bed was soft, the pillows softer still; whence came such luxury save from an heiress able to afford it? The better then for our men to win. But perversely, if you will, it was no longer win or lose or even fight that filled my thoughts; and I missed, most perversely of all, not the hardness of our wooden bed, to be sure, but those strong firm arms that held me there, although I willed myself not to think of them. Talk not to me of her, Raoul once had said. We were betrothed when we were young and she was not faithful to me long. Nor I to her. When they were young and I still an orphaned brat, dragged up those early days far from Cambray. All night long they danced. He said he slept in Paradise. At Sedgemont, we had almost starved, no time for dancing, no paradise in those neglected far-off days. Judas, I thought almost savagely, the word fit for him, this is not an excuse I would have thought of, to avoid seeing her.

  But think of it I did, all night long, no sleep for me. Nor do I think there would have been sleep in any event. The other ladies tripped in and out without restraint. At first I imagined they went to relieve themselves in the cesspits, they had seemed to drink as much as men; but soon I realized they had other needs, and, as was so often proved, Walter's information about them was correct. Where they went with their lovers I do not know; perhaps even privacy was no great thing, and whores in a camp can always find some place, so no doubt did they, the stable lines if not too particular, the backs of tents, under the benches for tomorrow's jousts, the distant tree clumps. For hours, it seemed, I heard their voices, teasing, high, and men's, urgent with desire. These be the Norman ladies they boast of, I thought, this is how men sleep in Paradise, flaunting sin for all the world. Well, I had not been chaste myself, I had lain with a man and not been wed; I had hoped for—no—
prayed for a son by him. If sin it is to lie, to so desire, then damned was I beyond redemption's hope. What hope then for those who love for sport? But among those busy performers, I did not distinguish any voice I knew. Lady Isobelle entertained in another place, did not sleep where I did, and who her companions were that night—I did not let myself think of that.

  The dawning could not come too soon for me, although too soon perhaps for those knights who now must rise and work, such a blare of horns as to wake the dead on Judgment Day. Ralph de Boissert's men rode through the camp, shouting that everyone should prepare, waking us with more vigor than goodwill. The jousters, for this second day was given over to them, were soon up. They were quartered apart from us, and those who had been so active all night were no less forward now that day was here. Their squires and pages, half-dressed, were already saddling up their destriers, testing leather and steel for weaknesses. As for the masters, some, like cats who have spent all night upon the tiles, stretched and yawned, allowed their squires to shave and wash them, buckle them into their mail, prick up their spurs. Others, more devout perhaps, or contrite after a round of pleasuring, attending Mass and on their knees prayed for forgiveness or success or both. Others, cautious to the last, checked each piece of equipment themselves, paced on foot along the lists, noting its slight dips and rises, marking the proper place for them to bear down on their opponent, judging the firmness of the ground, if still soft after yesterday's rains.